Time: A Matter of Life or Death
by Adalanta
Summary: Gunny races against time to get Clayton Webb away from the Paraguayan military and to a hospital before he bleeds to death. (Set after the Season 8 Finale)
1. Running Out of Time

Time: A Matter of Life or Death

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story are owned by the producers of _JAG _and probably a whole lot of other people. In other words, not me.

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first JAG fanfic. I'd never considered writing one before, but I was so pumped after the Season Eight Finale that my mind just went into overdrive. This story concentrates on Gunny and Webb and what happened to them after the end of the show. Please, let me know what you think (since this is a first) by leaving me a review at fanfiction.net or emailing me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. Oh, yes. The whole story will be probably be three to four chapters in all. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Running Out of Time 

"Mr. Webb, can you hear me? Mr. Webb?" Gunnery Sergeant Victor Galindez, Gunny for short, glanced worriedly to his right at the slumped, bloody figure in the passenger seat, trying to ascertain whether or not the man was conscious. 

Time was of the utmost importance right now – a true matter of life or death. There had already been a twenty-minute delay at the checkpoint, twenty endless, nerve-racking minutes watching the Paraguayan soldiers practically take apart his Landrover in search of any possible reason to arrest him or kill him on the spot. They'd searched the entire vehicle, top to bottom, and had even gone so far as to insert a long wire into the gas tank to ensure that the Americans were not smuggling drugs in there. Gunny had answered what questions he could without blowing his cover, appearing to cooperate fully, but when the captain in charge ordered him to remove Webb from the car, he'd vehemently objected, insisting that any at all movement could cause the death of the seriously injured man.

Galindez shifted his dark eyes back to the road and rubbed his bruised, aching jaw with one hand. His "insistence" had earned him a rifle butt to the jaw as well as the stomach by a large, ape-like sergeant, something he did not want to repeat. Although his jaw hurt fiercely whenever he tried to talk, he was sure it wasn't broken, just badly bruised. His stomach, on the other hand, was one solid mass of pain; by some vicious stroke of bad luck, the gun had slammed into the exact spot where he'd been shot just a couple of days earlier, an area that was still inflamed and sore. Black spots had momentarily danced in front of his eyes as he'd hunched over, clutching his stomach and gasping for air, but he'd refused to back down, firmly pushing the flaring pain aside to accomplish his mission. 

Slowly straightening up, he'd raised his chin and glared defiantly at the captain, unwilling to back down no matter how high the cost. Commander Rabb had made him responsible for Mr. Webb's safety. And then there was the fact that he owed him big time for saving his life just days before. For some strange reason, the captain had released them a minute later and allowed them to continue their urgent journey. Gunny still didn't know why the man had suddenly changed his mind. 

And he hadn't stayed around to ask. 

The vehicle bounced hard as it hit another pothole in the middle of the dusty, dirty path that the locals called a "road." Frowning, he looked over at Clayton Webb out of the corner of his eye, concerned by his prolonged silence. When he'd first started the drive back to Ciudad del Este, the nearest city, every pothole or large bump in the road had caused Webb to moan weakly, the abrupt movement too much for his tortured, damaged body to handle. Even though Galindez was a Marine (and one who'd seen combat in Afghanistan at that), the agonized sounds torn from the CIA man's throat affected him deeply. For Clayton Webb – a man who appeared to have no feelings – to be reduced to a moaning, bloody wreck…

The moans were disturbing enough, but the heavy silence that had fallen was much worse. The last time he'd heard any sound come out of the agent's mouth had been at least fifteen minutes ago. He knew that Clayton was still alive, his ragged breaths were still coming, but they were getting more difficult to hear and seemed to be more shallow and uneven than before. _I've got to hurry. I don't think he has a lot of time left. If he doesn't get help soon… _

A shudder rippled through his sturdy frame at the thought of how close he'd come to being in Webb's position. _If Webb and Colonel Mackenzie hadn't stormed the terrorists' camp to rescue me…If I hadn't been careless enough to be captured in the first place…_He shook his head to clear it, nearly groaning from the pain that ripped through the whole left side of his face. Gritting his teeth, he mentally berated his recent actions, from getting caught to allowing so much time to pass at the roadblock. _If something happens to Mr. Webb because we were delayed, I'll never forgive myself_, he thought angrily but then clamped down on that particular thought. _All right, Victor. Calm down. Remember what the Admiral always used to say, "Don't deal with 'if's.' You'll only drive yourself crazy that way." You're right as usual Admiral, but that doesn't make it any easier._

Another pothole, this one even larger than the last, jolted the Landrover badly. Galindez whipped his head as a weak groan came from the passenger's seat. "Sir? Mr. Webb? Can you hear me? Talk to me, Webb." 

With one eye on the looming city and the other on the injured man beside him, he saw Clayton Webb lift up his head slowly inch by inch, as if his neck were unable to hold the slight weight. _With the beating he took, that wouldn't surprise me_, he thought bitterly. Gunny's heart clenched when he saw the man's ashen, bloodless face and the glazed, pain-filled eyes that stared up at him, the huddled body trembling slightly where he reclined against the back of the seat. "Gunny…" he wheezed, the word nearly inaudible.

"Welcome back, Mr. Webb," he replied, deceptively calm, while rapidly thinking, _I've got to keep him awake and talking. He can't afford to loose consciousness again. He might never wake up. _"How're you doin' sir?"

Webb took a couple shaky breaths before he answered weakly, "Just…great." 

"That's good to hear. Guess we don't need to hurry so much, huh, sir?" His joking instantly disappeared as the other man's eyes fluttered closed. "No, Mr. Webb, you've got to stay awake!" he said urgently. His worry increased drastically as he noticed the sweat that beaded the pale forehead, a sure sign of advanced blood loss. The sight only confirmed his worst fears – Webb was hemorrhaging internally.

"Can't…" he mumbled, body beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

Swallowing hard, Galindez shook his head, ignoring the flash of pain the movement caused. "Yes, you can! We're almost there! The hospital's only a few minutes away! Don't give up now! You got to fight!" He broke off his improvised pep talk as Webb began to cough deeply, wrenching, wet coughs that shook his limp frame and left him spewing up blood. The dark red liquid splattered his light colored pants and shirt and oozed out of his gaping mouth, leaving a shocking trail of crimson on the otherwise colorless face. 

"Webb?" he called frantically, wanting more than anything to pull over the Rover and do something – anything – to help him, but he knew if he gave in to that irrational urge, Clayton Webb would surely die. _That last coughing fit_ – o_ne of his broken ribs must have punctured his lung, _he realized, stunned. "Webb, stay with me here! Stay awake! You're gonna make it!" Weaving the vehicle through the streets like a madman, Gunny continued to plead with the CIA operative while literally pushing the accelerator to the floor.

Chest heaving, Webb desperately gasped for the air that his damaged body was denying him. About two blocks from the hospital, he tried to speak one last time. "Gunny…," he whispered thickly, coughing even more from the effort, blood spurting from his mouth with the force of each cough. 

Gunny couldn't look at him, too busy watching the traffic he was flying by, and could only listen with a heavy heart to what he hoped would not be Webb's last words. "You're gonna be all right, Webb," he said reassuringly, his voice wavering a bit at the end, and gripped the wheel with two white-knuckled fists, helplessness threatening to overwhelm him.

"Tell…Sarah…" he rasped, his breathless voice scratchy and hoarse from endless screaming. "She…w-was," he gurgled and stopped to spit out a mouthful of blood, his breathing rapid and shallow. "…worth…….it," he breathed. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Webb collapsed bonelessly down onto the seat. He gasped a few more times and then grew silent and still.

TBC………………


	2. Just in Time

Time: A Matter of Life or Death

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: Gunny and Webb belong to CBS and the producers of _JAG_. Dr. Ibanez, however, belongs to me. 

Author's Note: Wow! Thank you all for the reviews and for the emails! Your enthusiasm prompted me to get this chapter out as quickly as possible (it's twice as long, by the way). Please, please, take a second to leave another review to let me know how I'm doing or feel free to email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. 

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Chapter Two:  Just in Time

_Three hours. It's been three hours and still no word._ Gunny leaned forward in the orange, plastic chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his unsteady hands covering his haggard countenance. 

All in all, he looked just like he felt…worried, nervous, exhausted, and helpless. He also knew that he looked grotesque – his blood-stained clothes and purplish-blue, swollen jaw had already frightened away an elderly couple, a middle-aged woman with a small child, and a rather attractive young lady who'd gone to the waiting room to buy a can of pop. Someone – he didn't know who – must have complained about his grisly appearance because not long after he'd scared the last person off, a young nurse had approached and asked if he wouldn't be more comfortable waiting in the doctor's lounge. 

_More comfortable, _he laughed once humorlessly, the noise short and bitter. He scrubbed his face with his hands but quickly pulled them away and stared down at them, still seeing the crimson stains despite several washings. _I forgot how hard blood is to wash off. And as hard as that is, it's even more difficult to forget how dark it is, how warm it feels on your hands… He sighed heavily and straightened up in his seat, frustrated by his mental wandering. _Wake up, Victor. This isn't the first time you've seen someone bleed. You've been shot yourself, for Heaven's sake. Not to mention that you were seeing friends get shot in combat only a few months ago. __

But this was different.

He was sadly familiar with seeing other soldiers get shot, had even held his closest friend Rick in his arms when he died. But the point was that those incidents happened in the middle of a war, on the front lines. 

And Paraguay was not the front lines. Nor was it at war with the United States.

_Something like this is not supposed to happen here, half way around the world, so far away from all of the other fighting. These people shouldn't have to deal with terrorists with missiles and automatic guns, shouldn't have to see people covered with blood._ He hadn't intended to relocate to the doctor's lounge, but just as he was about to refuse, he'd remembered the look on that little girl's face, the way she'd shrieked in terror when she'd seen him and hid her eyes in her mother's breast. He couldn't bare to witness that again. So, although he still didn't trust the hospital staff, he'd reluctantly accepted the nurse's offer and allowed himself to be led to the good sized, clean room where he currently sat, waiting for news on Webb.

"No news is good news," he muttered aloud when he caught himself looking at his watch not five minutes after he'd last checked. _But still…his mind rebelliously continued, and he was forced to squelch the disturbing thought, clinging to the most important fact there was: Clayton Webb was alive. Someone would have come to him otherwise; therefore, proving the old saying that "no news is good news." _

Thinking back on those chaotic moments just after Webb had stopped breathing, he marveled again that the medical staff had been able to bring him back. He'd arrived just seconds after the agent had lost consciousness and had raced inside the hospital with the bloody man cradled in his arms, begging in Spanish for someone to help his friend. Instantly, the staff had rushed Webb into the Emergency Room and inserted a tube down his throat to restart his breathing. Gunny had stood outside in the hallway watching through a small, glass window, trying to see what was going on when Webb had flat lined, and everything had gone to hell, machines droning, alarms sounding, doctors and nurses shouting to each other. They'd shocked him once, twice, three times…and then, amazingly, his heart had started to beat again. He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there – it had felt like forever – before a nurse gently took him by the arm and directed him towards the waiting room. 

The door to the doctor's lounge opened suddenly, startling Galindez, who jumped up from his seat, automatically reaching for his pistol, only to realize belatedly that he had left it in the Landrover. He forced his hands down to his sides, all the while mentally berating himself, and waited for the doctor to speak, his stomach churning queasily.

The tall man with graying black hair gave him a sharp, piercing look that left the sergeant even uneasier than before. After a few seconds, he inquired quietly, "You brought in the man from the car accident?" The words were more a statement of fact than a question.

Gunny nodded. "Yes."

The older man extended his hand to shake Gunny's with a grip that was firm and confident. "I am his doctor, Mr. Raul Ibanez. Let us take a seat." Sitting down on the opposite side of the table, he continued. "Although he is still listed in Critical Condition, your friend has finally stabilized and has been moved into the Intensive Care Unit. Hopefully, his condition will improve enough in the next twelve hours or so – that way he can be moved into another, more private room. He's still on the respirator because of the extensive damage to his lungs and his ribs."  The doctor paused to clear his throat. "You are, of course, welcome to visit him, but I wished to speak with you first."

"About his condition?" Galindez asked evenly, looking directly at the older man.

"Yes, among other things." Dr. Ibanez leaned forward, placing both of his forearms on the plastic table. His dark eyes caught Gunny's own as he spoke calmly. "There was no accident, was there?"

Gunny froze in shock, his insides turning to ice, his blood as cold as freshly melted glacier water. Mind racing, he desperately cast about for the right way to handle the situation, thinking, _All right, Victor. Marines don't panic, they come up with a solution. Think. "What do you mean? I was there with him in the car when it flipped." Not the best words, he was certain, but at least they might buy him some more time to work up a credible story._

Ibanez shook his head, his expression one of disappointment, like a father who has just caught his favorite son lying to him. "Son, I wasn't born yesterday. I've been a doctor for over thirty years. I know what a car accident looks like and what sort of injuries that can occur. That man was not injured in a car accident." The older man leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. 

"No? Then what was it? What do you think happened to him?" 

"He was tortured," the doctor said, his voice certain.

"Tortured?" Gunny forced himself to laugh and then nearly winced when he heard how fake it sounded. "You must be joking. That went out of style with the Dark Ages."

"If only that were true," replied Dr. Ibanez softly, staring blankly off into the distance, his weathered face etched with lines. In that moment, the doctor appeared old and worn, like a veteran soldier looking back over his career at all of the battles he'd fought, grieving at those he'd lost. Then he blinked and shifted his penetrating gaze back to Gunny. "Unfortunately, those methods are still practiced today, Mr. – . Forgive me. I forgot to inquire as to your name. For that matter, I do not even know the name of the man I have been working on for the last three hours. If you could be so kind…?"

Gunny opened his mouth, ready to give he and Webb's cover names but then hesitated. _What if Webb calls out my real name or asks for me? That would ruin whatever shred of trust this man has for me. _Although hastily considered, the decision was easy to make. _I'll have to use my real name and Webb's, too. He'll be so disoriented from all of the medication that he'll be lucky to remember what his real name is, not to mention his cover name and story._ "I'm Victor Galindez. Your patient's name is Clayton Webb."

The other man nodded once. "Very well. As I was saying, Mr. Galindez, I do not believe you, and this is why: There is not a single sliver of glass in any of Mr. Webb's injuries. Had this been an accident as you claim, glass would have been found imbedded in at least one of the numerous cuts that have been sutured. Add to that the massive internal bleeding, prolific bruises, and burns, and the fact that you sit here with nothing to show from the same accident but a bruised jaw…well, you must forgive me, but I'm having a hard time accepting your story." Dr. Ibanez's expression went utterly serious and his voice hard, seething with barely controlled anger. "Plus, I ordered one of my staff to go outside and take a look at your vehicle. He returned, telling me all about its bullet-riddled windshield and the different guns he saw inside. Now, what I want to know, before I phone the police, is whether you were the one who so brutally tortured that man or was it someone else?!" The doctor's voice had risen steadily through his explanation from a normal, pleasant tone, ending in an angry shout.

Looking into those smoldering, dark eyes, Galindez knew that he could no longer continue his charade, that he would be forced to tell this man the truth…at least as much as possible. Sighing heavily, he began to weave together a story that was mostly the truth, though he included a few strands of lies to protect himself and Webb as well as the entire hospital staff. His slightly altered tale left out all of the important details – who Webb worked for, the reason he and Gunny were down in Paraguay – and omitted any mention of Commander Rabb and Colonel MacKenzie. By the time he finished five minutes later, the dull throbbing in his jaw had flared into an almost blinding wave of agony that stretched from his left temple down his neck to his shoulder, leaving him damp with sweat and dreading the next time he had to open his mouth.

"So…Mr. Webb was being held for ransom?" Dr. Ibanez spoke after a short silence.

The American held his gaze, unflinching and unwavering, using the last of his energy reserves to hold the pain at bay. "Yes. He's an extremely successful and well-known businessman in the United States. The men who captured him planned on demanding quite a high ransom for him." Inside, he smirked, realizing that, for the first time, he was grateful for being ordered to work with Webb and the CIA, an extension of the government that he loathed. Because of that "unholy alliance," he'd learned how to lie convincingly to anyone, a necessary element in an operative's personality, particularly if he wanted to survive whatever undercover operation he was assigned. Gunny had been doing that for several months and had, by necessity, become quite adept at it. This situation was not that different, only less dangerous.

"You said that you work for Mr. Webb, Mr. Galindez. What do you do for him?"  

"I'm part of his personal security team." _Well, that wasn't too much of a stretch,_ he thought, running an unsteady hand through his disheveled hair, somehow managing to mess it up even more. "I was sent down immediately when it was discovered that he'd been taken. I got there as soon as I could, but, as you saw, I was too late."

The doctor shook his head and gave him a small smile. "He's still alive, son. You should not be so hasty to judge yourself a failure. If you had not come, then he most certainly would have died."

"He still might die." He hated himself for saying it, but he could no longer deny the truth that loomed over him like a black, ominous thundercloud. Webb had stopped breathing once, and his heart had gone completely still. Now that he looked back on those shocking facts…hadn't he already failed? Webb had died. He had failed to save him. It was as simple as that. He lowered his eyes to the top of the table and picked at the chipped plastic, the bitter realization creating a sour taste in his mouth and a growing, painful knot in his stomach. A light touch on his hand startled him, and he jerked his face up, only to find Dr. Ibanez looking at him, with an understanding gaze.

The doctor leaned forward and said softly, "Yes, I admit that is a possibility, but at least he has a fighting chance – a chance that you gave him by getting him here to the hospital. Don't give up on him. I assure you that we have not." 

Gunny gave a grim half-smile. "That's good to hear – " His voice caught and abruptly cut off as pain exploded in his jaw, wrenching a low, strangled moan from his throat. His body went rigid, his eyes slamming shut as he focused solely on riding out the fiery wave of agony that threatened to consume him. Sight and sound retreated into the background. He was only vaguely aware of movement around him and hands touching him: a strong yet gentle hand resting on his right shoulder, steadying him; a quick, sharp prick in his upper arm; and a cold, numbing sensation along the left side of his face. For a time, he knew nothing but pain, and he was rolled and shoved about by the sheer force of the ebbs and tides. 

But, ever so slowly, the pain faded, until the world around him began once more to make sense. 

When he was finally able to summon the energy to open his eyes, he found himself lying on a hospital bed, an IV attached to his right arm and a large ice pack propped up against his left cheekbone and jaw. Looking around blearily, he blinked, completely confused by the sudden change in location and – when he briefly lowered his eyes – the baffling change of clothes. Instead of the blood-splattered shirt and jeans, he was now wearing green hospital scrubs. _What the – ? How did I get here?_ Just as he was about to contemplate moving, Dr. Ibanez walked through the open door.

"Ah, you're awake." The man smiled, pulled a chair up to the right side of his bed, and sat down. "I'm sure you're a little confused as to how you ended up here. No, no, don't try to talk," he said quickly, as Gunny tried to speak. "You need to keep that jaw still for a few hours. The less you talk, the less pain you'll have. That must have been some blow you took. I'm glad to say that your jaw is not broken, only severely bruised, but that's more than enough." Dr. Ibanez paused for a second, uncertain whether or not to continue. "I was forced to sedate you. You were in so much pain that your blood pressure shot up, as did your heartbeat." He took a deep breath and then released it slowly. "Why didn't you tell me that you'd been shot? I understand your concern for your friend, but does that worry have to jeopardize your health – and your life?"

_What is he talking about? _Gunny wondered silently, giving him a puzzled look. _So I got shot…it's not like it was life-threatening or anything. That Mennonite couple took care of it. It hurt, still does hurt, but it wasn't that big a deal._

The other man must have read the confusion on his face. "Your wound was growing infected, son. If you had not required my help for your jaw, you might not have known about it until it was too late for the medicine to help. The infections in this country are particularly vicious and fast spreading. Your stubbornness might have gotten you killed. Thankfully, we caught the infection in time for the antibiotics to work effectively – provided you stay in bed and rest for the next six or eight hours. Do you understand? Blink if you understand," he ordered quietly.

The Marine sergeant blinked, too stunned by the shocking turn of events to do anything but follow orders, a habit too deeply ingrained to ignore. Not willing to think about the consequences of his actions (or inactions in this case), he pushed his own medical problems out of the way, focusing instead on the injured man he'd brought in earlier. _Webb. I need to know about Webb, how's he doing, _he thought, worry gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Unable to talk, he weakly lifted his right hand to get the doctor's attention and then traced a large "W" on the hospital covers at his side. 

It took a couple of times for the man to realize what he was asking. "Mr. Webb's condition has improved slightly but he still remains in ICU. His blood pressure was dangerously low from all of the internal bleeding he suffered, but it is slowly rising and should be at acceptable levels within the next few hours. Once that happens, I intend to move him into a private room, as I'd mentioned earlier." 

"Now," he said briskly, purposely changing the subject. "I need to check your wound before I leave you to rest." Strangely enough, he picked up a hand mirror from the stand before moving around to the other side of Gunny's bed, carefully lifting up his shirt to expose the gunshot wound to the left of his stomach. The doctor held the mirror at just the right angle for Galindez to see the wound while remaining flat on his back. To his surprise, once the bandages had been removed, he saw that the area was a dark red and appeared swollen, much worse than it had looked only the day before. He flinched and stiffened as Dr. Ibanez cautiously palpitated the edges, relaxing only when the man grunted in satisfaction and began to rebandage him, a quick and relatively painless process compared to the previous examination. "The antibiotics seem to be helping. The edges aren't quite as red, and it's no longer oozing blood." Once he'd replaced Gunny's shirt and pulled up the thin bed sheet, he straightened up and took a step back. "I know you want to hear more about Mr. Webb, but you really need to rest and allow your body to concentrate fully on fighting the infection. I'll have a nurse check in on you every half hour, so if you need something, be sure to let her know." With one last, reassuring smile, Dr. Ibanez left the room.

After absently staring at the open doorway for a couple of minutes, Gunny let his weary eyes close, allowing his exhausted and bruised body to fully relax for the first time in over a year, and quickly drifted off to sleep to the hypnotic, repetitive beeping of the heart monitor.

TBC…


End file.
